Isla Tortuga

The smell of diesel still takes me back to that bus ride. We bumped along uneven roads, bouncing in the back of the enormous coach bus. The narrow road wound its way through rich green coffee plantations terraced on the mountainsides. Excitement countered the queasiness that still fills my stomach with lead when I remember the first leg of the journey.

We emerged from the dusty roads into a narrow port town. The blue pacific waters sparkled on the horizon beyond. The mass of houses and palm trees gave way to a jungle of ship masts as we approached the crowded harbor.

My mother and sister and I slipped into a simple white building, each taking our turn behind the louvered door of a changing stall. I replaced my shorts and shirt with my favorite bathing suit: neon pink with navy trim. I zipped the small zipper at its top and emerged, ready for our adventure. Gramps stood waiting and bouncing my two-year-old brother as my father made final arrangements.

We took our place in line, waiting to board the ship that would carry us over the glassy waters of the Gulf of Nicoya, a small inlet on the vast Pacific. The yacht was small, at least by the standard of the massive cruise ships that filled these waters with eager tourists. But to my young eyes, it was as enormous and luxurious as any ocean liner. The bottom level housed a bar and rows of seats that sheltered passengers from the sun and wind. The upper deck was open, a line of seats tracing the contours of the railing. A small band of three men waited on board to welcome us with their lively music.

We boarded the dark lower deck. My sister and I raced across its length, eager to reach the narrow stairs that carried us to the upper level. We had taken this trip before, but never at Christmastime. We settled on the low seats, the cold metal of the railing pressing into our bare backs. The musicians began their first rendition of the song that still evokes the warm salty breeze of the Pacific, Feliz Navidad. The band was small: a lead singer on guitar, a drummer on a single drum, and a man shaking maracas made of cans. The scratchy rhythm he produced soon competed with the roar of the engine. With a sudden lurch, we pulled from the dock and listed out into the brilliant waters.

The air was abuzz with conversations and laughter, with the thrum of the engine, and with the lively tropical music of the band. The sticky wind whistled in my ears and whipped my hair as I turned my face to the sun.

I drank my fill of the views, watching as the simple houses and crowded harbor slipped slowly from sight. I waved at smaller boats that raced past us. On this deck, serenaded by the band under the dazzling sun, I felt like royalty. I imagined myself as a child Cleopatra, pulled along exotic waters by my unflagging crew.

It was easy to let my imagination run wild in this place. For miles in every direction, I was surrounded by the sparkling blue depths. Who knew what creatures swam beneath us? I imagined dolphins, sharks, and mermaids; unfathomable creatures unseen by modern eyes. Or perhaps I was a pirate aboard my own vessel, sailing the waters in search of high adventure. I could be anything I wanted, trolling the waters on this small ship.

When my imagination had run dry, I descended the steep steps to the lower deck. Here was the ultimate freedom, the truest luxury of childhood. The small bar provided unlimited drinks to passengers, and their menu included four varieties of Fanta. I sampled them all during the hours at sea: the sickly sweet flavors of grape, orange, pineapple, and pink cream soda. Fresh pineapple and mango, more flavorful and juicy than any I have tasted since, were offered on small platters. I ate my fill of the delicious fruit, tapping my toes as the band again played through Feliz Navidad.

The mid-day sun was high when we first sighted land. Far on the horizon, its green mass rose out of the diamond waters like a monster emerging from the depths. The ship carried us along its coastline, mounded and round, the massive form of a jungle-covered turtle. We trolled the perimeter, each angle more beautiful than the last. There were no houses or settlements. Nothing but the unspoiled cover of palm trees that concealed the steep slopes of the island. A thrill ran through me as I imagined the secrets this place hid.

We rounded the island and came upon a flat, open coastline. Its white sands blazed in the noon sun. The engine noise softened as we made our slow approach. There was no dock on the island. The ship carried us into the shallow waters, stopping just yards from the pristine beach. Here and there, passengers climbed into the small rowboats and were carried skillfully to shore. I stood with my father at the edge of the deck. The rippled sea floor was clearly visible through the shallow waters. With a nod, we lowered ourselves into the warm water, just barely reaching my chest, and waded happily to shore.

The next hours were spent blissfully splashing in the calm waters of Isla Tortuga. Swarms of exotic fish tickled our legs as we rode the waves and lounged in the balmy ocean. We took turns sharing the snorkel set, marveling at the colorful schools visible just beneath the surface.

When we tired of swimming, we sat on the shore, heavy with the scent of sunscreen and fish, and buried our feet in the sand. Tiny hermit crabs scampered over the beach. We made a game of catching them, my sister and I, digging holes for them and laughing as their tiny legs scurried through the surf.

The smell of fire soon mingled with the fragrance of the ocean, and we made our way to the small shelter built of palm branches. Enormous kettles billowed smoke as plates of grilled covina, sea bass, were offered to the passengers. We ate in the shade of the palm enclosure, enjoying the coolness of the space and the tantalizing breeze from the water. Behind us lurked the dark jungle, enormous and unknown. The sun reached its fingers only into the first few feet before it was blotted out by the thick bramble of palm trees and undergrowth. My mind ran wild with thoughts of jaguars and snakes and reptiles. I shuddered, turning instead to the open brightness of the ocean.

My parents and grandfather rested on the shore, memorializing the day in colorful photographs too beautiful to be believed. My brother and sister and I played on the beach making sandcastles and chasing down crabs. We floated on our backs in the shallow waters. Nothing else existed in the world to us, save this place.

Too soon, the sun began its descent through the clear skies. The rowboats were filled with sunbaked passengers ferried back to the ship. We took our place at the railings of the upper deck, desperate to keep our eyes fixed on the island until the last possible moment. As gradually as it had appeared from the vast ocean, it slipped sadly from view and we were surrounded once more by the now-golden waters of the Pacific.

We lurched over the choppy ocean, quieted by our time in the sanctuary of Turtle Island. The riotous noise of the morning’s journey was replaced by the low hum of conversation. My brother curled up in my mother’s lap, rocked to sleep by the motion of the boat. I leaned back against Gramps, his arm around me, watching the pelicans that swooped alongside us. As we pulled up to our dock, the band sang out one last rendition of Feliz Navidad, bringing a sweet end to our tropical Christmas.